Confessions of a menu snatcher

WHEN I heard a few weeks ago that Le Cinq in Paris and Alain Ducasse’s Le Louis XV restaurant in Monte Carlo had won their third stars from the Michelin Red Guide, I had two instant reactions.

The first was a kind of gleeful pride. In 30 years of traveling in and around France, I’ve generally chosen restaurants based on my gut feelings and recommendations of friends, rather than Michelin stars; thus, my wife and I have managed to eat at most three-star restaurants -- including both Le Cinq and Le Louis XV -- before Michelin anointed them with that third star.

But my second and more lasting reaction to the new Michelin ratings was anything but pride. It was the recollection of my most embarrassing restaurant moment -- two moments really. Both happened the same day, both at Le Louis XV.

When I have a really great meal, I often ask if I can take a menu home -- both as a souvenir and for future reference. Most restaurants are happy to accommodate a customer who’s so appreciative. A few, however, will try to give you an old menu -- not the menu you ordered from but a no-longer-used menu from the previous season. To me, that’s like having a ticket stub from the second game of the World Series when you actually went to the third game.

Le Louis XV did something even worse, in my view, when my wife and I had dinner there for the first time, back in 1989.

When I asked for a copy of the menu, our waiter said I could have one only if I paid for it. I can’t recall how much he asked for, but I think it was about $30.

I explained that I didn’t need the heavy, expensive cover, just the pages inside listing the dishes, pages that could be easily and cheaply replaced.

He insisted I’d still have to pay.

I passed.

The food was magnificent, though, so we returned for lunch the next day -- with Plan B in mind.

Plan B was to, uh, steal the inside pages.

I’ll have the menu, thanks

I didn’t have any qualms about my impending petty theft. After all, I was only going to take the inside pages. My plan was to discreetly slip them out of the cover, fold them beneath the table, tuck them into my inside jacket pocket and return the empty menu cover to our waiter. He’d put it with the other menus, and no one would be the wiser.

Wrong.

A few minutes after I pulled my not-so-sleight-of-hand act, the maitre d’ returned to the table. He opened the menu cover and held up it up -- empty -- facing me. He didn’t say a word. He just glared at me accusingly, daring me to deny what I had done.

In what was clearly an Oscar-worthy performance -- think Charles Boyer -- I gave him my best Gallic shrug, put on my best French accent (which is none too good, even under the best of circumstances) and, with a look of complete, if utterly feigned bewilderment on my face, I pointed to the empty menu cover and asked, “Qu’est-ce qu’est arrivee?” (“What happened?”)

He didn’t believe me for a minute. But Le Louis XV, as befits its name, is a Very Fancy, Very Serious restaurant -- the silverware was gold -- and he wasn’t about to accuse me of being both a thief and a liar. So he just stood there, continuing to glare at me -- and I can assure you there is no glare more withering than a Gallic glare.

Determined not to be intimidated, I glared right back.

Finally -- after an agonizing and embarrassing interlude -- our first course arrived, and the maitre d’ left.

Service was correct but noticeably (and understandably) cool for the rest of our lunch, and the food -- again -- was superb. By the time the maitre d’ brought our bill, I had begun to feel more than a little guilty about both my theft and my refusal to own up.

I decided to try to make amends in a way that I knew a French maitre d’ would appreciate. With money.

I reminded the maitre d’ that we’d also eaten in the restaurant the previous night and asked if we could please buy a complete set of menus -- lunch, dinner, dessert, the special mushroom menu, everything -- and have the cost added to our bill.

Turning the tables

Now it was his turn to be embarrassed. I could see the wheels turning in his head: “Mon dieu. Why would Monsieur be offering to pay for something he’d already stolen? Maybe I was wrong. Maybe someone at another table stole the menu, and I wrongly accused this nice American and his nice wife.”

He scurried away and returned with all the menus, -- fancy covers included -- in a very pretty bag, tied with a bow. It was a gift, he said apologetically -- with his compliments.

Now, of course, it was my turn to be embarrassed -- again. After all, I had stolen the pages from the lunch menu. He was right to have accused me, however wordlessly. And I couldn’t now, in good conscience, take all these menus without paying.

So I left a pile of francs -- the equivalent of about $70, as I recall -- along with a note, thanking him for his attentiveness and generosity.

Then I walked quickly outside, one hand holding the bag of menus, the other clutching my jacket to my chest for fear it would flap open and reveal the contraband menu in my inside pocket.

David Shaw can be reached at david.shaw@latimes.com.